At 1258 the radar operator in Unseen, then at periscope depth, was scanning the skies to the east. Within thirty seconds he had reestablished the track and the CPA. “Target approaches 49 miles. Distance off track 20.”
“SURFACE! BLOW ALL MAIN BALLAST.”
Unseen climbed malevolently out of the Atlantic, smashing her way through the waves, green water surging over the casing, the missile launcher stark against the empty skyline, as the radar tracked the incoming Air Force Three, bearing home the peace champion from the Peace Conference of Nations.
“Speed 420 knots, sir.”
“Range now 42 miles, sir.”
“Check surface picture. Anything out there, inside 12 miles?. Nothing? Perfect.”
“We have adequate firing solution within the parameters, sir.”
“Target holds course and speed. CPA unchanged…entering the missile envelope, sir.”
Commander Adnam nodded, checked his watch. “COUNTDOWN?”
“Sixty seconds, sir.”
At 1302:20. “MISSILE LAUNCH!”
Unseen’s third SAN-6 Grumble Rif blasted off from the deck of the ex–Royal Navy diesel-electric. With fire roaring from behind, it streaked into the skies, climbing to 2,000 feet in three seconds, where it should have accelerated, but instead, summarily blew itself to smithereens, showering the ocean with flame, sparks, and shrapnel.
“MALFUNCTION, SIR! MISSILE HAS SELF-DESTRUCTED.”
But the CO had seen the sudden unaccountable destruction, and the heavy cloud of smoke that hung high above his ship. With the launch aborted, he ordered the fire-control team to program and launch missile four.
At 1303:20 it fired, screaming into the sky with a perfect vertical takeoff, reaching 33,000 feet in under twenty seconds, and angling across to the Closest Point of Approach, toward which Air Force Three was making 420 knots, 15 miles out.
Colonel Jaxtimer saw it through the clear skies, or at least he saw the vertical smoke trail way out in front. The ex–Air Force bomber pilot reacted instantly. He was trained for this, and he was ready, and he knew what he was seeing. His broadcast waveband was open to Shannon, ready for the 20 West way point, and he hit it instantly. “MISSILE! This is a guided missile!”
As he spoke the SAN-6 changed course and came straight at the Presidential Boeing. Al Jaxtimer saw it, and he was still on the line to Shannon ATC. He hit the decoy button, knowing it to be near-useless in a head-on attack, then hauled on the stick, trying to evade. But the big Boeing was not built to be a fighter plane. And the Shannon operator heard the colonel cry out, “JESUS! MIKE!” as the big Russian-made weapon came screaming in, smashed into the area right below the nose, exploded, and blew Air Force Three apart, along with everyone who flew in her.
In the control center of Unseen, the words were simple, and they signified a task accomplished. “No contact on radar bearing, Captain.”
“Thank you, gentlemen. Nice recovery. Open main vents. Take her deep, 300 feet. Make your speed nine when you’re down there. Course zero-four-five.” It was precisely 1305 (GMT).
0805. Office of the National Security Advisor.
The White House.
Arnold Morgan gazed at the communication from the Icelandic listening station, which George Morris had faxed over from Fort Meade. The admiral looked at the time the American surveillance team had picked up the transient contact: 1245. Jesus! Twenty minutes ago. Not bad. He walked over to his big, sloping, chart desk, upon which the light was permanently on, and checked the position.
He took his calipers and made some measurements, muttering to himself constantly. “Something out there on 20 West, way south opposite the west of Ireland…could he be out there? And if he is, what the hell’s he doing? It’s seventeen days now since Starstriker went down…but this signal is telling me the guys at Keflavik think they may just have detected a diesel-electric, and that bastard’s in one.
“Let’s see…uh-huh, he could be in that position very easily. But why’s he in such a goddamned hurry? What’s he doing running his boat at a speed like that for eleven whole minutes? He must know we might get onto him. Beats the hell outta me, but he must think it’s worth it.
“He’s too far north to be after another supersonic airliner. And there’s not many warships out there. It really beats the hell out of me. But what do I know? Not much, except he got two supersonics, and he might be after a third. That’s not much, but it’s a whole lot more than some of these other assholes around here know.”
He buzzed Kathy, and asked her if there was anything he could reasonably offer her to acquire a cup of coffee. “I’m up for anything, dinner tonight, marriage, undying love…whatever pleases you. BLACK WITH BUCKSHOT, DINGBATS!”
Kathy shook her head, fixed him some coffee, and walked into his office. And there she found her boss and future husband, hunched over a map of the North Atlantic, pressing the buttons of a small calculator. “He coulda gotten there…no doubt…and since George couldn’t find a trace of another diesel-electric boat within hundreds of miles…and since even the Brits haven’t the first idea who it might be…I guess that’s gotta be him, right?”
“Right,” said Kathy. “Here, drink this. Shall I presume you are still searching for your phantom Arab submariner?”
“I’m not sure I haven’t found the sonofabitch,” he growled. “At least a very sharp young man in Iceland may have found him.”
“Iceland!” said Kathy. “I thought he was an Arab, not an Eskimo.”
Admiral Morgan smiled. “No. They just caught a noise they thought might be a submarine up there. Pretty vague but plausible for the man I seek. He gives away nothing, if he can help it. And he ain’t given us much this time either.”
By 0820, he had finished his coffee and was preparing to attend a meeting in Bob MacPherson’s office, when the phone rang. It was Admiral Morris again from Fort Meade.
“Arnold? George. Air Force Three’s down in the Atlantic. No survivors. It was hit by a missile. The pilot saw it, and he had time to broadcast it. I got a recording. Last known position 53 North, 20 West. I’m sticking right here.”
Admiral Morgan felt the blood draining from his face. His mouth went dry, and there was a tremble deep within him. He could find no words. He just stood in the middle of the room, in total shock. Kathy O’Brien came back through the door, and she thought he was having a heart attack. “My God! Arnold, what’s the matter? Here, come and sit down.”
The admiral walked to his desk and sat down with his head in his hands. “Just please tell me if you’re ill,” she said. “Shall I get a doctor?”
“No. No. I’m okay. But I just heard Air Force Three has been hit by a guided missile, right where I’m guessing Adnam is, on the chart. The Boeing’s down in the North Atlantic. No survivors.”
“Holy Mary, Mother of God,” said the Irish redhead. “Please tell me this is a joke. Was Martin on board?”
“The whole team was on board. Al Jaxtimer had time to broadcast. He saw the missile that killed everyone.”
Just then the admiral’s private line to the Oval Office lit up red, the signal for the national security advisor to report to the President immediately. Arnold Morgan pulled on his jacket, grabbed the chart he had been working on, and walked swiftly to the private office of the Chief Executive.
The great man was alone, pacing the room, his face, like the admiral’s, displayed only numb shock and sadness. However, he had not summoned his senior security advisor to join him in grief. And Admiral Morgan knew that. Before the door was closed, he heard the President say, “Well, Arnold, that’s that. You were right. That theory of yours has panned out. There’s someone out there shooting down airliners. I don’t think any reasonable person could arrive at any other conclusion.”
“Nossir. And they have to be doing it from a submarine. And there’s only one submarine that could be doing it, and that’s the missing one from the Royal Navy. As you know, sir, in my opinion there’s also only one man who could be doi
ng it. And he’s not as dead as we thought.”
The admiral laid out his Navy chart on the table. And he pointed at longitude 20 West. “Twenty minutes before Air Force Three was hit, sir, right down here, our listening station in Iceland picked him up on SOSUS. They couldn’t be accurate about position, and the boat was too far away to put up engine lines. But they thought it worth reporting as a possible submarine running through the water, I should think quite fast, for eleven minutes only. It had to be him, sir….”
Just then, one of the private phones rang, and the president picked it up. Then he handed it to the admiral. “It’s for you.”
“Morgan. Hi, George…yup…yup…what was it?…merchant ship…Jesus Christ! We’re gonna have trouble keeping this one quiet.”
He replaced the receiver, and said, “This is developing into an even bigger horror story. A British merchant ship in the area, running 20 miles due south of the datum, reported in on the air-sea rescue band, that they saw the smoke trails from two missiles, one of which seemed to have exploded right above the water. Then they saw a much longer trail going very high…. Then they thought they saw fire and wreckage falling toward the water. They’re heading into the area right now. That means the Irish and Brits know something diabolical has happened.”
“They’re right, too. It has. But you and I alone, Arnold, cannot have the luxury of grief. Not right now. We have to get this into line. And we have to stop this sonofabitch. I mean…. Jesus…he can’t just park himself in the middle of the Atlantic and keep firing missiles at passenger jets.”
“Yes he can, sir. He can in that submarine. It’s just like the Russian Kilo. If he stays deep and slow, we might not find him in a year. Not if he can find a way to refuel without us catching him…which he obviously has done, several times already. If he can find his way to relatively shallow inshore waters, which is what that submarine was designed for, we might never find him. The ocean’s just too fucking big, and that boat is too damned stealthy.”
“Arnold, there has to be a way.”
“Sir, whether there’s a way or not, we sure as hell have to try. I was about to call Joe Mulligan and give him the new search datum. I’m assuming the Royal Navy is sending in a couple of ships to try and locate whatever floating wreckage there may be. I’m afraid we’re running out of deep-submergence submarines. At this rate we need a new one every couple of weeks. Do you have to broadcast, sir?”
“I’m not certain. But I guess so. Tonight.”
“Well, sir, I better go and establish who knows what, and who has already said what to whom. Will we reconvene in, say, one hour.”
“Yes. Come right back here…make it ten o’clock. Give me a little time to chat with Dick Stafford and Harcourt. Jesus, this is unbelievable.”
The admiral’s inquiries seemed to be overtaken by a new development every five minutes. But he noted the hard, salient facts down in his log in the manner of an ex–nuclear submarine commander.
261304(GMT)FEB06. 53N, 20W app. Air Force Three hit by guided missile fired from sea level. Destroyed. Plainly no survivors.
Oceanic Control, Shannon, has tape of Colonel Jaxtimer’s voice confirming missile sighting. Tape removed by station chief in accordance with international airline agreements. Now held securely, pending arrival of U.S. ambassador from Dublin and U.S. naval attaché from London.
Shannon alerted all air-sea rescue networks to crash. They estimate it took place 470 miles due west of Galway.
The Irish and British press found out that Air Force Three was down at approximately 1330GMT. U.S. press picked up news flashes 1340 (GMT), 0840 (EST).
Gander ATC not involved. AF3 had not yet checked in.
One Irish operator, and one supervisor heard Colonel Jaxtimer’s last words. Both men reputedly senior, and reliable, and bound by classified-information rules inherent in their job. Nonetheless, they know, and they are not under our control.
British merchant ship saw two missile smoke trails. Broadcast this information on air-sea rescue networks. May have been heard by several ships, but we have not located any ships in the area. British captain bound for Cardiff docks, South Wales.
MOD, Whitehall, unhopeful of cast-iron secrecy even if no one else did hear merchantman’s broadcast. But the captain will be met in Cardiff by MI5 agents, plus reps from U.S. Embassy, London. The captain was ex–Royal Navy, former surface ship lieutenant, which is hopeful.
Assessment of chances of keeping the missile attack secret—not high. We must plan for it to leak out inside a week.
Assessment press angle when they find out—they’ll go for terrorism since we are not at war.
At which point the admiral closed his book, and called Admiral Mulligan for the third time in forty-five minutes.
“Hi, Arnold. We got two L.A.-Class boats up that way, both attached to the John C Stennis CVBG. They’ve been heading north up the Atlantic for a few days now, but they’re within twelve hours of the datum. I put the whole group on high alert. But we have no idea which way the submarine will run…north, south, east, or west.”
“I know. It’s a fucking frustration, right?”
“Yeah. That, and the fact that in twelve hours, even if he’s only making 5 knots, deep and quiet, he’s still going to be somewhere in a circle radius of 60 miles, or, somewhere in the middle of 10,000 square miles. If he makes a fast run for it, which I don’t think he’ll do because of SOSUS, you could very quickly double that.”
“Why do you think they heard him, Joe, just before he fired?”
“I’d say he wasn’t happy with his position off track, and with the Boeing charging in toward him, he had to make his adjustment very fast. He took the risk, ran the boat flat out to get into the best firing position, and they caught him. But then he went slow again. And they never heard him again.”
“You know the problem with this bastard, Joe? He’s a perfectionist in a submarine. Hardly ever takes a chance, never makes a mistake. I must say I’m filled with foreboding about this…but we have to catch him, Joe. I’m just afraid he’ll strike again before we do.”
8
THE DEATH OF MARTIN BECKMAN WAS A STAGGERING blow to the morale of the Western world. The United States was stunned, coast to coast, and it was the kind of public grief hitherto reserved for John F. Kennedy, and his brother Robert, and for Martin Luther King, Jr. For men whose vision had given great swaths of the populace a reason for hope, and optimism. No Vice President in the entire history of the nation had ever come close, in death, to causing such a widespread outpouring of mass despair. In London, the former New Jersey senator had touched a chord of high, unselfish principle and reasoned promise, just as the Kennedy brothers, and the Reverend King did, most every time they spoke publicly.
Late Sunday afternoon, in churches of every denomination, all over the country, services were concluded with renderings of John Lennon’s everlasting song. And all through that night, thousands and thousands of ordinary American people would keep a candlelit peace vigil outside the White House. By six o’clock the vast crowd was already massed all the way back to the Washington Monument. Huddled together in coats, parkas, scarves, gloves, and fur hats, they crowded the icy acres of West Potomac Park, along the Reflecting Pool, right to the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. And each time the bells of nearby St. John’s Church behind the White House tolled out the hour, a thunderous chorus of the dead Vice President’s beloved anthem lifted up through the black winter skies of the American capital…. “ALL WE ARE SA-A-YING is GIVE PEACE A CHANCE.”
Martin Beckman had touched the soul of a nation. Those people, gathered on that freezing evening, believed that somewhere out there, perhaps on the mystic foothills of heaven’s Mount Olympus, the Great Champion of Peace still stood tall. And they believed that his voice would never be silenced, just as the voice of the Reverend King had never died away. They believed the memory of Martin Beckman would always remind the most powerful nations of an iron-clad world, to listen to his plea…for the
plight of the Third World poor, in the name of God, to the plain, heartrending face of stark, human misery.
Perhaps in death, the Vice President’s avowed cause would grow even greater. But back in the Oval Office, where the President, his national security advisor, Bob MacPherson, and Admirals Dunsmore and Mulligan, wracked their collective brains, the talk was not of peace. It involved the massed resources of the United States Armed Forces taking up secret battle stations against the great underwater terrorist from a distant desert.
It was Secretary of State Harcourt Travis who would now bring the voice of the cold-blooded detective to the meeting. Apprised that evening, once again, of the suspicions of Admirals Morgan and Mulligan, this time he did not dissent, but he did suggest an organized short list of suspects be produced, just to demonstrate, if necessary, that things were not being run in a haphazard way.
Admiral Morgan’s face betrayed a hint of irritation as he replied, “I got it right here, Harcourt. Been updating it every four hours for three weeks. I’ll read it to you and give you a copy. Sometimes I forget that politicians spend at least a third of their time covering their asses. In my game you don’t always have time for that.”
H.M.S. Unseen (1999) Page 25